


Each Sip Like Starlight

by cloverfield



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Champagne, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Gratuitous Russian, Hotel Sex, Katsudon For Victory, M/M, Oral Sex, Playful Sex, Soft BDSM, Teasing, Tickling, Tie Kink, Victory Sex, Viktor Gets Wrecked, Yuuri's Thunder Thighs, laughing during sex, post-Episode 7, slight kink negotiation, toasts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8909911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloverfield/pseuds/cloverfield
Summary: “Come quickly, I am drinking the stars!”― Dom PerignonThere are two beds here – both identical, made up neat with hotel linen and pillows piled high. They’re only going to need one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _Yuri!!! on Ice_ has ruined my life, and I have never been happier.

The bathroom breathes out a cloud of steam as Yuuri opens the door, and underfoot the hotel carpet is so soft he actually groans as he steps out onto it, walking gingerly on bruised feet into the warmly lit room. Part of him wants to tumble into bed straight away – an afternoon nap doesn’t make up for a missed night of sleep, and the emotional hangover from his earlier anxiety attack isn’t exactly helping either – but the rest of him is energised, almost manic with an excitement that he hasn’t felt since… since _ever_.

Also, now that the air conditioning is clearing out the steam from the extremely hot shower he’d just had, Yuuri can smell _food_.

“Ah, Yuuri – I was starting to think you’d fallen asleep on your feet.” Viktor smiles, long and slow and with blue eyes twinkling, a silver cloche in one hand and a bottle of what is probably champagne in the other. Condensation beads on cool glass, rolling in heavy beads across a gilded label. “You’re in good time. Room service just left and dinner is served.” Viktor drops the cloche neatly onto the cushion of the third chair arranged around a small table, pulled out from the wall and with two places set; two more chairs sit in snug arrangement, angled across from one another and separated only by the table’s narrow breadth, and Yuuri’s breath catches sudden in his throat at the sudden understanding of what, exactly, Viktor has ordered them both for dinner.

“I know it won't be as good as your mother’s,” Viktor says quietly, and the _pop!_ of the champagne cork echoes out as he tips the bottle to two flutes in turn, the hissing _glug_ of bubbles filling each glass almost to the brim as he pours. “I honestly think no katsudon I eat ever again will be, no matter how delicious. But I still thought you might appreciate it all the same. You are celebrating a victory tonight, after all.”

The smile on Viktor’s face is almost... bashful, which, considering he’d  _kissed Yuuri in front of global press_  a few hours before ( _!!!_ ) should not be nearly as cute as it actually is. But it _is_ cute, and  _Viktor_ is cute, even and especially with the way the tip of his nose is flushed pink and his mouth keeps curling into the edges of a smile even as he fights to keep his expression solemn. “I have it on good authority that this particular _Blanc de noir_ has enough body that it should pair quite well, even with the sauce.”

Yuuri knows next to nothing about wine or champagne – only that it tastes nice and too much of it means one hell of a hangover – but he knows tonkatsu inside and out, and the scent rising softly with the steam from each bowl is very promising indeed. But. Well. “Silver isn’t a victory, Viktor.” It doesn’t hurt as much to say that as expected – a year and a bit ago, silver would have been as distant a dream as gold, as placing on the podium at all. But second is not first, no matter how well Yuuri had performed. Which is not to say he begrudges Phichit’s triumph – Phichit _earned_ his medal with a spectacular performance, and there were enough flaws in Yuuri’s own routine that he knows how and why he scored the points he did.

Still. Katsudon is a dish for winning, and Yuuri didn’t win.

“Silver is a medal,” says Viktor smoothly, and the motion of his hand as he seats the champagne in its ice bucket and sweeps up a glass is so perfect as to be rehearsed. “A score enough to qualify for the next round of competition – and then some. And besides,” he adds, the stem of the glass he presses into Yuuri’s pink-flushed fingers is just as cool as the blue of his eyes, the burr of his accent, each word throaty in its enunciation, “who said we were talking about _skating_?”

 The heat that unfurls in Yuuri’s chest – the heat that flushes his face, the heat that catches sweet in his throat and makes his vision blur – must show, because Viktor takes pity on him, flapping a long-fingered hand and ushering him to sit.

“Your dinner will get cold, and your champagne will get warm – sit, _eat_.” The chair scrapes over the carpet as Yuuri takes his seat, only a little awkward with his glass in one hand and his dressing gown bunching soft and thick beneath his thighs. He takes a sip while Viktor fusses, and the first noise of startled pleasure that escapes him at the taste ( _cold and crisp and delicately sharp, prickling in bursts of clear dry sweetness on his tongue_ ) makes Viktor look up and – _oh_. Yuuri knows that look.

“It’s good, no?” Viktor doesn’t look so cute anymore, far from it. Viktor looks how Yuuri feels, and there’s a victory in that that has both everything and nothing to do with being on ice.

“Mm.” Yuuri takes another sip, and this time doesn’t try to mute the hum of his lips against the glass. Viktor takes his seat quickly after that.

“За любовь,” murmurs Viktor, champagne in hand and his eyes fixed on Yuuri’s face.

The words are throaty and drawling, thick in a way that Viktor’s English isn’t, and when he tips his flute forward Yuuri meets him halfway, the gentle _tink!_ of glass-on-glass an echo that Yuuri feels somewhere beneath his ribs, so deeply for such a small sound. It’s not a toast he can even begin to repeat, but maybe he doesn’t have to, because Viktor watches him over the rim of his own glass as they both take another sip, and this time Yuuri barely feels the bubbles crash and burst over his tongue for the way Viktor is staring. It’s a look beyond hunger, beyond Eros – something unnameable and so very _blue_ ; it’s a look that makes Yuuri drag the rim of his flute against the swell of his lip when he takes his next swallow, and half the champagne is suddenly gone from Viktor’s own glass.

“ _You_ ,” says Viktor, still thickly, and his hand is just so slightly unsteady as his glass skitters softly over the tablecloth, fingers trembling as he puts it down. “You are going to be the end of me, Yuuri.” It doesn’t feel like an end to Yuuri – it feels like a beginning. “Eat your katsudon.”

It really isn’t as good as the tonkatsu at home – but it’s still delicious, crispy crumb flaking on his tongue and the pork juicy and tender. The egg is rich and buttery, and while the sauce is maybe a little too sweet, clinging thickly as it does to his teeth, the saltiness from the broth cuts through it cleanly, and the sip of champagne Yuuri takes after really does complement it very well. It’s warm and good, the heat of each mouthful sinking into his body with every bite, every swallow, and the solidity of the rice in his belly promises to ward off a chill. It’s a meal to keep you warm in winter, to guard against the ice; it’s a meal to reward _effort_ , to bring comfort like the press of loved hands firm on your shoulders.

“Вкусно,” mumbles Viktor, halfway through a mouthful, and that word Yuuri does know, enough that he looks up with a grin – and stops, and _stares_ , the happy sigh of Viktor’s breath huffing as he takes another bite ( _white teeth delicate on the tines of his fork, lips shiny with grease and eyelashes fluttering half-closed from the pleasure of a warm meal on a cold night_ ) enough to twist hot in Yuuri’s gut, and the shiver that snakes down his spine makes his chopsticks skitter against the inside of his bowl.

“Ah, if I ate like this every night you’d have to roll me off the ice,” and here Viktor pauses to swipe his thumb over the corner of his ( _pink, wet_ ) mouth, catching a smear of sauce and sucking it from the pad of his finger. “Mm. I could get used to it though. You’ll just have to keep winning, in that case, and I will have to – Ah? Yuuri?”

He doesn’t remember putting his chopsticks down, but the clatter is unmistakeable, and the rasping _chuff_ of his chair pushing back over carpet the same. Beneath Yuuri’s fingers, the grain of the tablecloth is fine and smooth, crumpling under his palm as he surges up and out of his seat, the fold of his robe yawning open and the shift of air cold against his skin where it pours down over his chest and spills across his belly. “Yuuri?” says Viktor again, eyes shocked open – but his pupils are dark and deep and wide, lips parted and wet, and the champagne buzzes sweet in Yuuri’s veins when leans forward just enough to catch the corner of that mouth with the lap of his tongue, gathering the last traces of tonkatsu sauce in a scatter of crumbs and licking them away.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” says Viktor a third time, each vowel thick and dragging, and it is so, so easy to press their lips together, to push his tongue into the waiting warmth of that mouth. Viktor groans and Yuuri _tastes it_ : richer than yolk and salty-sweet, crisp and edible. Enough to sink one’s teeth into, and so he does, catching the meat of Viktor’s lip between his own with suckling urgency. There’s another clatter, the ringing of a fork dropping from shaking fingers and bouncing across the tabletop, white linen splattered with sauce, and this time when Yuuri grabs the back of Viktor’s head, fingers sinking into the softness of his hair and threading tight, the sound that hums against his lips is more growl than groan, the heat of Viktor’s breath hissing against his teeth and the surging push of his tongue rising tidal against Yuuri’s own.

At some point Yuuri closes his eyes, and at some point further Viktor’s hand rises to flutter fingertips along the line of his jaw – tilting his chin just so, enough for the kiss to deepen with a urgency that curls his toes and hums a thrill down into his bones – but it’s not until Viktor rises from his seat, turning with lips still locked to Yuuri’s own, one hand dragging hurriedly across the table cloth and scattering cutlery in its wake, that Yuuri realises what is happening: namely, that Viktor is standing, is _moving_ , is sinking to his knees before Yuuri and nudging into the space between Yuuri’s thighs to surge in close, gasping hot and hungry against Yuuri’s mouth as Viktor’s hands fall grasping and heavy to the plush folds of his dressing gown, long fingers sinking shakily into fleecy cotton.

“Yuuri,” Viktor pants, “Yuuri, _Yuuri_ , Сахарок,” and the curl of Yuuri’s hand down the back of Viktor’s neck, fingernails scraping sweetly through the hair that tangles in his grip, provokes a shudder that is _inspiring_. “You are so much,” and this a sigh, breath coming short as Viktor kisses him again, again, three times more – short, fluttering presses against the corner of Yuuri’s mouth, his chin, the tip of his nose. Yuuri fists a handful of Viktor’s vest, the fabric smooth and straining beneath the greedy clutch of his fingers. “I’m _lost_ , I’m. Mm, again, д _орогой_.” The warmth of Viktor’s breath and the thickness of his voice, husked and kiss-roughened, means more than the word could, even if Yuuri could speak Russian.

“Viktor,” Yuuri manages, breathing hard himself. His hand tightens on the back of Viktor’s neck, and something in him _trembles_ at how Viktor stills in breathless anticipation. “Viktor, I want – I _want_ –”

“Anything you like.” It’s a promise, and Viktor eases back enough that Yuuri might look down on him, kneeling on the carpet with his tie hanging loose around his neck and his shirt crumpled beneath his vest. Viktor’s chest is heaving, each breath a panting thing, his face flushed and eyes glittering beneath the fall of his fringe. “Anything at all – it’s yours.” Viktor’s tongue swipes across his lips, the next breath he takes a hissing drag. “ _I’m_ yours.”

 _Yes_ , thinks Yuuri, and then _mine_ , but what he says is “Bed,” and Viktor sighs like a tired man sinking into a hot bath at the end of a long day: with mingled pleasure and relief.

“Oh, please,” he murmurs, and when Yuuri reaches out to curl his fingers around the width of Viktor’s tie, the silk slips through his fingers like water. “ _Please_.”

* * *

The transition from the table to the bed goes smoother than expected, especially considering that _they can’t stop kissing_ , but somehow Yuuri manages to manhandle Viktor – mostly by using his tie as a leash – into a place where he can simply push against the span of Viktor’s chest – hard and broad beneath the flat of Yuuri’s palm, the satin of his vest slippery and warm – and send him toppling back onto the mattress.

There are two beds here – both identical, made up neat with hotel linen and pillows piled high. They’re only going to need one.

Viktor is laughing as he goes down, loud and unabashedly joyful. It’s lovely. “Ah, дорогой мой – _Yuuri_ , my naughty little katsudon, what _ever_ will you do with me now you have me where you want me?” His eyes are glittering and wicked, soft hair in disarray, and the flush that colours blushing cheeks and burns across the bridge of his nose makes him look more than merely drunk with happiness: he looks besotted, sotted and sodden beyond the realms of indulgence. It’s a good look on a man who tends toward melancholy in his quieter moments, and it’s something Yuuri wants to see every day for as long as Viktor will let him. And maybe Yuuri is a little drunk too, champagne bubbling sweet through his veins and tickling happiness across every inch of skin. It’s a familiar feeling when he’s around Viktor.

But while Yuuri has been staring in open admiration, he still hasn’t spoken, and before his eyes Viktor’s patience starts to fray. “Yuuri,” whines Viktor, as he is often wont to do when something displeases him. His brow creases as he wriggles backwards enough to let his socked feet lift up and onto the covers, his knees bent and trousers wrinkled beyond all measure. “Don’t just stand there – come _here_.” His accent thickens on the last word, making it a demand, and something in Yuuri unfurls in delight at the sound.

_Imperious bastard. I love you._

“So bossy,” he mumbles, shaking his head – and the way Viktor’s breath catches as Yuuri’s hands fall to the tie of his dressing gown, fleece rasping softly as it loosens, is as gratifying as all the applause in China. More so, even. “When have I ever _not_ done what you’ve told me to?” he asks, even as the robe starts to slip loose, cool air slipping across his skin and prickling tension in its wake.

“I can think of several occasions,” says Viktor, laughing, and leans back onto his elbows to grin up at Yuuri from his graceful sprawl across the bed. His smile is heartful and delighted, the light from the bedside lamp gleaming on the buttons of his vest, warming the flush on his cheeks, catching on the shine of his teeth. “In fact, I’m sure it was only yesterday that you – _unh_ ,” and Viktor stumbles, stuttering on a sharp breath as the weight of Yuuri’s dressing gown hits the carpet with a demanding _whumph_. He swallows. “ _Помоги мне_ ,” and this last a whisper, clumsy and soft as it tumbles from a slack mouth, an admittance Yuuri thinks he was not meant to hear.

It’s a bit of an ego stroke, all the same: the shocked desperation in that voice clear despite the language barrier, and it’s enough to make Yuuri dizzy knowing the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen is staring at his own body like _Yuuri_ is something to be devoured. So he takes a deep breath, and lets the tension in his shoulders bleed out; lets himself stand as tall and unashamed at the foot of the bed as he ever stood in skates, lets the heat of Viktor’s gaze cling and slide like the stretch of a costume on skin, and when Yuuri takes a step ( _just a single, slow step_ ) closer, Viktor hisses out a sound that has no meaning but hunger.

“You’ve seen me naked before.” In fact, Viktor has probably seen Yuuri naked more than anyone but his own mother – and he stopped bathing with his parents by the time he was old enough to be trusted not to drown in the onsen.

“Yes, I have,” says Viktor slowly, still staring. “But not like _this_.” His eyes are not so wide now, not so startled; are heavy-lidded and heavy where they fall, the itch of that dark and heady gaze kindling a burn to scratch beneath Yuuri’s skin as it trails slowly down, down. “It’s not a sight to tire of,” Viktor murmurs, accent thick and lips parting soft on the words. “I want to see you like this always.” Those thick eyelashes flutter, chest heaving with each dragging breath. Viktor is all but gulping for air, and Yuuri watches in fascination as goosebumps prick over the bare skin revealed by rolled-up sleeves, the hair on Viktor’s arms standing up straight as he shivers. “Yuuri. _Please_.”

It’s not even the most _obvious_ sign of arousal – especially considering Viktor’s splayed knees and the way the slope of his flat stomach rolls down to the hard ridge straining at the front rise of his trousers – but it’s possibly the one Yuuri likes best: to know that the sight of him has the same effect on this man as the first breath of cold air that flows off fresh ice. It makes Yuuri feel good. It makes Yuuri feel _powerful_.

Viktor swallows again, this time with an audible click, his hands fisting in the sheets as he shudders. “Yuuri. I say this not as your coach, but as a man reaching the end of his limits: If you do not get down here in the next minute, I refuse to take responsibility for my own actions.”

“Take your clothes off,” is what Yuuri says in response, and if there’s an edge of laughter in his words, it’s only because even feeling so turned on he’s damn near dizzy with it he’s not yet ready to yield, to let himself fold under the weight of Viktor’s charisma and be dragged down beneath him to be consumed. It wouldn’t be bad, to let it happen – hell, the thought of it alone, of letting Viktor take control and draw him into those arms, to let Viktor show him, guide him, please him makes desire cramp in his gut. Yuuri _wants_ that. Has wanted that for so long he can barely resist it, and Viktor _knows it_ , if the look in his eye means anything ( _and it does, it does_). But Yuuri wants more than that too – wants to show himself to be an equal, a partner, a mirror and not just a shadow forever chasing after.

Later, Yuuri will let Viktor do anything he wants, but for now it’s his turn to take the lead.

“Don’t make me say it again,” he says quietly, into the soft echo of heavy breathing, and blue eyes flutter briefly closed. Slowly, and with shaking hands, Viktor loosens his tie. Silk whispers free of his collar and drifts down his shirt, floating gently to the bed to curl, ribbon-like, atop the covers. “Good,” whispers Yuuri, and when Viktor looks up at him he lets himself sigh. “Just like that.”

Viktor shudders. “You are,” and this a huff of breath, Viktor’s hands jerking as they fall clumsily to the buttons of his vest, “so cruel.” His fingers are clumsy with speed, hurried as he strips, and the way Viktor curves upward with feet planted against the bed – hips rising, back a supple bow bent into an yearning arch as he holds himself up with core strength alone – is liquid poetry, supplication in every elegant line of his body. At least, it is until Viktor finishes with his vest and moves onto his shirt, his frustration evident in the dragging tear of buttons pulled violently free, all that pale skin rippling with muscle as his stomach is bared beneath the tug of his hands. “Look what you made me do – I liked that shirt,” and Viktor’s voice is nothing but playful, even with the edge of hunger that bleeds through his words, even as he drags his crumpled clothes out from beneath his body and drops them unceremoniously off the edge of the bed. “Are you happy now?”

 _Yes_. “Your trousers, too,” says Yuuri, and if his knees are weak from the trembling in Viktor’s own hands as they fall to the buckle of his belt then it’s not something Yuuri lets show on his face.

Black leather slithers through Viktor’s belt loops, a ripple of movement rolling from head to toe as he arches up once more, and the belt hits the floor in a slap. Viktor’s slacks slide down his thighs, tugged down by quick moving hands, and the flexion and tension of muscle as his legs kick out – first one, and then the other – ends with his trousers slumping off the edge of the bed and onto the carpet with a clothy rustle. Viktor falls back against the mattress, knees parted wide, and Yuuri can feel the blood draining down his body in a dizzying wave as one of Viktor’s hands slides over his own chest, trailing down the flat of his stomach to hook two fingers in the elastic of his briefs: black and silky and high-cut, the blades of his hips arcing above the snug band that cuts across them.

“These too?” purrs Viktor. His voice is a thick as syrup, clinging and rich, too sweet by far. Yuuri swallows.

“ _Yes._ ” If it comes out a little too fast, well, it does no harm to Viktor’s ego to think him impatient, and the sinful gleam in those eyes as Viktor shimmies out of his briefs and flicks them off the toes of one foot with a short, sharp kick is enough to make Yuuri step forward and grab Viktor by the ankle, pinning one long leg to the mattress as he pulls off Viktor’s sock, throwing it behind him without care for where it ends up.

A brief shadow flits across the wall and Viktor blinks. “Oh! I think that hit the lamp.” The thoughtful look on his face becomes a grin. “I love it when you’re _forceful_.”

Viktor’s other sock meets its twin in much the same manner, both of Yuuri’s hands curled around the jut of Viktor’s ankles as he looks up – and up, and along; sometimes it is easy to forget that Viktor is taller than him by a good few inches, especially when he’s wearing skates, but here the difference is so much clearer – the bed and the man that lies upon it, a sculpture of lean muscle and bone and living breath splayed out on white sheets. Viktor’s chest rises and falls a little too fast to be entirely casual, and the flush that pinks his nose has spilt down his face, down his neck and lower still – he’s glowing with it all the way down to his collar bones, sweat gleaming on warm skin and his nipples tight and hard. Yuuri can see the pulse fluttering in the hollow beneath Viktor’s chin, the way his pupils are dilated in the lamplight, the shine of his mouth where Viktor wets his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Will you come down to me?” Viktor murmurs, after Yuuri has had his fill of looking ( _at least for now; he’ll never tire of watching this man_ ) and one arm rises slowly, hand outstretched and long fingers beckoning. “Please?”

“When I’m ready,” says Yuuri, and Viktor’s toes curl as Yuuri smooths his hand up Viktor’s calf, firm muscle tensing and twitching beneath his touch, hair prickling his palm as Yuuri pushes back against the grain and slides his hand higher. “I want to look first. I want to _touch_.” The meaning of the word torture has changed a lot for Yuuri, in the past few months: it almost always brings the sight of Viktor in the bath to mind, or makes him think of the warmth of their bodies just barely touching as they practice on the rink. Having Viktor be so hands-on in his coaching has been the worst kind of blessing, and having those arms wrap around him in an embrace speeds his pulse and sets his blood to thundering with want in a way no other touch has ever managed.

Viktor sighs gently, head falling back against the pillows as his arm drops to the bed. Soft strands of hair fall gently over one eye, the other closing with a flutter of lashes. “Ah, Yuuri. _Сахарок мой_. Look all you like, but don’t take too long, hm? I can only hold myself back for so long.” Considering everything Yuuri has seen in regards to Viktor’s impulse control, it’s a fairly meaningful threat. Still, he doesn’t move as Yuuri edges onto the bed at last, curling his hands about Viktor’s knees as he sinks onto the mattress and pushing them apart to slide between, skin dragging against skin in the lightest of grazing touches. Viktor is as patient as Yuuri could ask for even as he swallows with a rolling gulp, lips parting in a demanding drag of breath. “ _Hnf_. Ты жестокая вещь.”

“I have no idea what that means,” huffs Yuuri, and rises up on his knees just enough to press his hands flat atop Viktor’s thighs. He’s so warm, the heat of his skin radiating outwards, soaking into Yuuri’s greedy fingertips. “I think you’re speaking in Russian on purpose, just so I won’t know what you’re saying.” It’s _definitely_ what Viktor is doing – he’s done it before, short sharp remarks in response to the press, his mouth smiling but his eyes so cool they burned; slow words whispered soft in the dozing darkness of a quiet room, his hand in Yuuri’s hair and Yuuri himself not nearly as tired as he let Viktor believe. That it can feel so different now ( _with the memory of how those lips can move branded onto his mouth_ ) is something that flutters warm in his chest, happiness sinking down into his bones with a lightness and a blissful surety Yuuri can scarcely believe.

Still. He’s not going to let Viktor get away with it. “How would _you_ like it if I spoke to you only in Japanese, huh? You’d be just as confused.”

Viktor opens one eye, slowly, a bright slit between the strands of his hair. Upon Yuuri’s face, his gaze _burns_ : the blue heart of ice, clear and cold and fierce as fire. “Я так хочу тебя.” The words are throaty, thick, rolling with a rumbling accent that sinks into Yuuri’s skin like butter, meltingly rich and oozing with heat. In spite of himself, in spite of how completely Viktor lies spread out before him, naked and vulnerable beneath his hands, Yuuri feels himself flush: a hotness that rises in his face and burns down his throat, rippling across his chest to leave him prickling with goosebumps as it plunges down to twist in his gut. “Ты мне очень нужен.” Viktor rises onto one elbow, the inside of his knee pressing warm against Yuuri’s side, trapping Yuuri neatly between his thighs.

The blood pounding in Yuuri’s ears mutes all sound but his own heartbeat. The slip of skin on skin as Viktor eases effortlessly upwards is startling in its intensity, more potent than expected, and for a moment Yuuri’s breath shudders in his lungs. It’s too much and not enough, all at once, so different from before: the warmth of Viktor’s hand smoothing down his back, the drag of his fingertips as they map the crest of Yuuri’s spine nothing unfamiliar but the weight of each touch meaning so much _more_.

“Yuuri,” says Viktor, and it is like this is the first time he’s ever said it, each sound new. “ _Yuuri_ ,” he says again, with gentle gravity, and the _wanting_ that quakes through Yuuri should not be nearly as shocking as it absolutely is.

And maybe his understanding of desire had been slightly abstract before – his Eros yearning and hot but never quite lustful, possessive and needful and innocent all at once – but quite suddenly it isn’t, and Yuuri feels it shudder through him in the best kind of awakening, stirring beneath his skin with an ache and a sweetness he could never have expected. “Ahh – _Viktor_ , I,” it stutters on his tongue, Yuuri struggling to speak, but what he wants must show on his face or in his eyes because Viktor surges into those last few inches between them, kissing skin to skin in a rush of heat as the strong hand stroking down his spine flattens to push them closer together.

“ _Uh_ ,” says Yuuri intelligibly, and in response Viktor kisses him, meeting lip to lip with no hesitance at all, the plunging heat of his tongue as it strokes into Yuuri’s mouth dizzying in its passion. Yuuri’s eyes close in a blur, and he gasps for air against the lush insistence of Viktor’s mouth – but he’s not alone here, the tremble in the arms that wrap around him and the clutch of Viktor’s hands by turns loving and desperate, each touch flickering with urgency as fingertips race over his skin and trail fire in their wake. The hard planes of Viktor’s chest push against Yuuri’s own, those long legs parting wider to urge Yuuri closer even as he topples forward, unsteady on the soft terrain that gives beneath the push of their bodies together on the bed.

His own hands curl around Viktor’s shoulders in something like desperation, frantic for a steady hold as they tumble to the mattress – but there is no steadiness here, the roll of those hips against his own and the crush of skin to skin sparking pleasure in the red-dark behind closed eyes, the thud of Yuuri’s heart crashing towards a crescendo that seems unstoppable. Viktor grinds up, _up_ , and the space between them contracts to nothing, harsh breath hissing with every surge and retreat, and the slick drag of heat and pressure against skin that has only known the touch of his own hand is almost too much for Yuuri to bear. Weightlessness swoops in his gut, the squeeze of Viktor’s leg wrapping around the back of his thigh punching a groan from Yuuri’s chest like the crack of blade on ice, and he hangs in trembling suspension for the moment of breathless exhilaration that comes before the fall.

 _If I don’t stop now I’m done for_ is his last clear thought, and it rings true: the throb between his legs that he could mostly ignore ( _too fascinated by his hands on Viktor’s skin, wanting more to conquer by touch than to be touched himself_ ) is no longer distant, promising an end before they’ve even begun if they can’t pull back from the edge that races towards them. Viktor doesn’t seem to care – his hands are branding and hot, everywhere all at once as they stroke over Yuuri’s back, grasp his hip, clutch at the swell of his backside with greedy fingers that promise tender bruises with the fierceness of their hold. “ _Viktor_ ,” and it’s a moan, not the demand he’s aiming for, Yuuri shuddering low and his hips snapping hard as he shoves between the squeezing press of Viktor’s thighs, helpless against the urge to thrust that rolls down his spine, “Viktor, we need to – I want to – _not yet_ – _”_

Viktor groans, a wordless grunt of frustration against the curve of Yuuri’s neck, and his hands shudder to a stop as he stiffens beneath the press of Yuuri’s weight upon him, all the planes and angles of his body locking into stillness as he sinks down into the bed. “Okay,” he rasps, and his hair sticks to Yuuri’s skin, damp with sweat as he pushes his face into Yuuri’s shoulder. “Okay, not yet, _okay_.” The words are a struggle, clearly, and Yuuri almost collapses in sheer relief – he’s not alone here, and Viktor will always meet Yuuri where he is, no matter how or why. “ _Gnnnhh_. Yuuri, talk to me.” Viktor swallows thickly, and his hands are gentle where they stroke upwards, arms curling across the slope of Yuuri’s back in the lightest of holds. “What do you need?”

“To – to slow down a little.” Yuuri swallows, throat tight. “Not _stop_ , I just – I don’t want to. Um.”

“Um?” repeats Viktor lightly, amusement threading through the husk of his voice, and the chest Yuuri lies upon shakes with laughter as he chuckles. “And here I thought your stamina would leave me in the dust.” He sighs happily, nudging the tip of his nose against the underside of Yuuri’s chin, breath warm and tickling with every exhale. “Ah, the impatience of youth.”

“You’re twenty-seven,” says Yuuri flatly, but he can’t even pretend to be mad, still lightheaded from the flush of orgasm just barely averted. “Twenty-seven isn’t _old_.”

“In skating terms, it’s ancient,” and Viktor’s lips press and cling, the lightest of kisses as he speaks. His arms are still trembling a little, and one hand rises from Yuuri’s back to thread long fingers through a sweat-damp fringe, combing it away from Viktor’s face as his head sinks back into the pillows. His other hand slips down once more, tucking beneath the swell of Yuuri’s buttock, and Yuuri can’t help the squeak that chips through his teeth as Viktor squeezes a good handful, humming as he does so. “Still, old man that I am, I can be patient.”

“Stop that,” gasps Yuuri, flopping forward and entirely unprepared for the welcoming movement of the hips below his, the branding drag of heat against sensitive skin making his eyes roll even as he scrunches them shut. “You keep – you keep touching me and I can’t _think_.”

Viktor chuckles again, soft and dark. “Ah, дорогой – that’s kind of the point.” His fingers squeeze again and then slip delicately lower, that feather-light touch enough to make Yuuri gasp and bump his forehead against Viktor’s collarbone.

“ _I mean it_ , Viktor,” and it was meant to be a growl, but the breathiness of Yuuri’s voice is in no way threatening at all. His pulse is still pounding in his ears. “You’re making this _so much harder_ than it needs to be,” Yuuri grumbles, without thought, and there is a slow moment of dawning horror where he realises exactly what he just said as Viktor gasps in delight beneath him, that broad chest expanding with a sharp intake of breath. Without even looking Yuuri knows _exactly_ what shape that grinning mouth will take as Viktor opens it, ready to say something cheerful and filthy and embarrassing. “No! Don’t you _dare!_ ”

“Yuu _uurriii_ ,” Viktor whines, but he’s laughing even as he affects hurt, unable to keep the plaintive tone. “So cruel – I would _never_ say anything so crude!” It’s the most blatant kind of lie, and Yuuri snorts, headbutting into Viktor’s chin in reprimand. Viktor laughs, and Yuuri feels it: the rolling chuckle that reverbs through his chest and vibrates against Yuuri’s skin as his ribcage swells and his core shakes; the warm trail of Viktor’s hands as they slide as one across the slope of Yuuri’s back, retreating into neutral territory and giving Yuuri a chance to catch his breath without the urgency of arousal taking away any thought of control.

It’s easy to let himself laugh too, chuckling soft as he rubs his face against the swell of Viktor’s chest, the steady thudding of the beat beneath his ear a comfort. “There we go,” says Viktor softly, and there are fingers in Yuuri’s hair, stroking slow in time with the hand smoothing down his spine. “There we go. Ah, you are so beautiful when you laugh.” Yuuri closes his eyes a little, rubbing his face against Viktor, and Viktor shivers just the slightest at the brush of eyelashes on warm skin. “There is no need to be nervous here, but if you are – well, then we have all the time in the world to go slow.”

“Not all the time,” mumbles Yuuri, half-distracted by how his lips catch on Viktor’s skin with each word. “We have a plane to catch tomorrow.” It’s a _thank you_ , even unspoken, and the throaty hum that is Viktor’s response is as clear as if he had simply said _you are welcome_. Still. They aren’t finished here tonight, not by any means, and Yuuri does want – he wants Viktor, wants _sex_ , with all the intimacy that entails: the heat and the desire and the culmination of mutual pleasure, everything promised by the look in blue eyes as Viktor tipped his champagne glass to meet Yuuri’s own not an hour before. And if Yuuri has never felt it so acutely before this moment, the possibility only exploding into being in the last few weeks as their connection spiralled tighter and tighter still, it’s been building for _months_ all the same – each moment between them a gentle slip of snowfall on the mountainside that becomes the inevitable avalanche.

“Mm, and early at that,” agrees Viktor. The warm hand on Yuuri’s back is wandering again, fingertips trailing curiously down Yuuri’s side, teasing the dip of his waist, the back of his hip. It’s ticklish, and Yuuri shivers without meaning to – the touch is too light to be anything else, and he has to snort back a chuckle as he twists to get away from it. “Oh? I did not know you were ticklish. How _wonderful_ ,” purrs Viktor, and immediately both his hands are at Yuuri’s ribs, digging in to provoke a shriek of helpless laughter as those fingers race over his skin and Yuuri himself bucks in Viktor’s arms in an attempt at getting away.

It’s no use – Yuuri might as well try and cast off iron chains for how tightly he’s held in that loving grip, and tears squeeze from the corners of his eyes as Yuuri gasps, wriggling and laughing and shivering all over from both the overstimulation and the simple joy of the moment.

“Why,” Yuuri wheezes, and a particularly athletic attempt at squirming away from those tickling hands ends with Viktor’s leg clamping over the back of Yuuri’s thigh, pinning him in place. “Aha, _Viktor_ – Viktor, I can’t–!” Another peal of laughter escapes him, Viktor’s fingers finding the space beneath his arms and tickling up into his armpits, Yuuri helpless to resist. “Ahaha!” Yuuri’s arm flails, grabbing a desperate handful of sheets in any attempt at freedom, but even as he does – even as Viktor’s hands stroke and tease and tickle, shivers of pleasure rippling across his skin – he knows he doesn’t _really_ want to escape.

“If you’re not laughing during sex,” murmurs Viktor, voice like velvet and his mouth hot at Yuuri’s ear, “then you’re clearly not doing it right.” He catches Yuuri’s earlobe between his lips in the same moment the motion of his hands changes, and what was the light-hearted flit of tickling fingers suddenly becomes a heavy, heady stroke of dragging palms and searing fingertips, firm pressure raking fire beneath Yuuri’s skin as Viktor’s hands smooth down his sides with deliberate and delicious purpose. The giggle trapped in Yuuri’s throat becomes a gasp becomes a groan, and he shudders as his knees give out, leaving him to collapse bonelessly atop the man beneath him.

Viktor’s teeth tease along the edge of Yuuri’s ear just as his hands tease down the arc of Yuuri’s spine, goosebumps prickling out from beneath the luxury of that touch, and Yuuri spares a moment to drag in gulping breaths against the pounding of his heart. The change in mood is sudden and dizzying: like Viktor’s just flipped the switch from playful to predatory, letting his hunger show in the shivering wet slide of that hot mouth down the side of Yuuri’s throat, the merest scrape of blunt teeth chasing after enough to set Yuuri’s blood to burning. Heat plunges down his gut, twists and coils, and Yuuri’s hips jerk, stuttering forward into the warmth between Viktor’s thighs and gasping at the slick drag of skin on skin as Viktor grinds up to meet him.

“There we go,” says Viktor again, and this time his voice is _filthy_ , barely an inch away from pornographic – thick and throaty and rumbling with the promise of more sex than Yuuri can handle. “Are you still nervous, дорогой мой?”

“No,” says Yuuri, after only a moment’s thought. And it’s true. While Yuuri might be teetering on the edge of overwhelmed, there’s no crushing sense of impending failure looming. He’s desperately aroused, sweating and shivering and shaking all over – but he isn’t _anxious_ , and the thudding of his heart is out of excitement more than anything else, adrenaline spiking in the echo of every place Viktor has touched him. He feels – he feels good. And when Yuuri gathers himself enough to find purchase on the sheets, rising up and onto his knees even as Viktor’s legs wrap warm and tight around his hips, looking down at the man who looks up at him with a heart-shaped smile and blue, _blue_ eyes, Yuuri feels _powerful_.

Slowly, Yuuri slides his hand down from Viktor’s shoulders, stroking leisurely over the clean delineation of hard muscle and soft skin flushed warm with the heat of their bodies, and curls his fingers delicately around Viktor’s wrists. Slowly, Yuuri lifts and turns the hands he holds in his own, gently easing them up and back, so that Viktor lies beneath him with arms raised above his head, his wrists pressed lightly into the pillows by the cage of Yuuri’s own fingers. Slowly, Yuuri presses down, just enough to sink his weight into his hold, to bring some of his own strength to bear – and beneath him, Viktor stiffens with a soft and breathy gasp.

“I don’t feel nervous at all.”

* * *

The effect of Yuuri’s hold on Viktor’s wrists is startling and immediate.

Viktor arches beneath him, bowstring-taut, ribcage expanding with a breathless shudder as he rises off the bed. Yuuri watches in amazement as those smouldering eyes fall open in something that can only be shock – and _delight_ , the curve of that cupid-bow mouth undeniably lovely, soft and kiss-swollen lips falling open as Viktor moans with complete abandon. It’s the most sexual sound Yuuri has ever heard, and completely unashamed at that; his ears burn at the thought of anyone else being able to hear it even as the thoughts _we’re in the most expensive hotel this side of Beijing they’ve probably got soundproofing_ and _I don’t want anyone but me to ever hear Viktor make these sounds ever again_ go to war in his head.

“Да _пожалуйста_ ,” groans Viktor, voice thick with pleasure, and any inkling Yuuri may have had that perhaps Viktor might not appreciate being manhandled is completely forgotten in the echo of that breathless, guttural cry. It’s very clear that Viktor does like it, in fact, as with a sound that Yuuri has only ever heard apply to his mother’s cooking, Viktor goes utterly limp and pliant all at once, the tension bleeding out of him like water through sand. “Yes,” he breathes, in English this time, and his eyelashes flutter closed again. “ _Mm_. If you had told me a day ago you were going to pin me to the bed and ravish me, I wouldn’t have believed you – and yet here we are.” Viktor shudders happily, goosebumps rippling down his arms in fine tremors Yuuri can feel through his fingers.

“You like this? You don’t mind?” Even if it is obvious – and it really, _really_ is, considering the quivering spread of Viktor’s thighs and the slick spill pooling against the hard muscle of Viktor’s belly as his hips jerk in tiny, helpless motions – it’s still important that Yuuri _ask_ : he has to know for sure, for his own sake as much as Viktor’s.

And Viktor knows him well enough to understand why he needs that reassurance, because he smiles dreamily up at Yuuri ( _cheeks flushed, hair mussed, blue eyes soft and burning_) and nods his head, arms flexing in Yuuri’s grip. “Yes. I like this a lot, Yuuri. You have my permission to hold me down, if you would like to.” His voice is clear and firm even if it is a little thick, his accent always stronger in moments of emotion, and there is no doubt that Viktor understands what he is saying. “I promise you, if you ever do something I don’t like or I am not comfortable with – I will tell you.” Viktor’s smile softens. “I want you to do the same with me, Yuuri.”

With his hands curled around Viktor’s wrists, it’s easy to lean forward; to brace himself above Viktor and look down on him, into those eyes that do not, _will not_ look away. Viktor has never looked away, not from the moment Yuuri asked Viktor to keep his gaze only on him.

“Alright,” says Yuuri, thumbs stroking against the bones of Viktor’s wrists, the beat of that racing pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips. “I will.”

When Viktor tips his chin up, it’s a clear invitation – one that Yuuri takes eagerly, meeting the throaty hum Viktor makes against his lips with a half-breathless laugh of his own as they kiss, and before long it spirals down into something greedy and hot. It’s so good – and so distracting – that Yuuri barely notices as Viktor strains upwards into his hold, startling when Viktor rolls against him, trying to hook Yuuri down and onto him with the pressure of his legs alone. Which isn’t exactly what Yuuri wants right now, and he breaks away with a gasp, fighting for breath even as Viktor chases after his mouth, lips grazing his cheek, his chin.

“Hey,” and if Yuuri’s a little breathless, well, it’s not something he can help. Anyone would be, with _Viktor Nikiforov_ naked beneath them and grinding up with all the determination of a five-time Grand Prix gold medallist. Heat slides along Yuuri’s belly, slick and hard, and he shudders at the echoing throb that aches in his gut as Viktor’s thighs squeeze about his hips. “H-Hey, Viktor – _stop that_.” It’s not meant to be a groan, but it comes out as one, and Yuuri yelps when Viktor’s teeth graze along his throat, just shy of a bite. “I’m in charge here–”

Viktor laughs, full-throated and hot, his breath huffing against the curve of Yuuri’s neck. One arm tenses with a ripple of muscle, rising up even against Yuuri’s grip on his wrist, and the stroke of Viktor’s tongue is a wet glide down the length of Yuuri’s throat that makes him shudder. “Is that so?” rumbles Viktor, voice thick. “Yuuri, if you want to pin me down you’re going to have to try harder than tha – _ah!_ ”

The bed creaks as Yuuri slams Viktor’s wrists back onto the pillows, forcing them down with all the strength he can bring to bear. “ _No_ , Viktor.” Yuuri leans forward, heart thudding heavy against his ribs as he plants one knee into the mattress, and the look on Viktor’s face ( _the look in those eyes_) sets a fire to blazing in his blood. “You’re going to keep your hands here.” Yuuri pushes Viktor’s wrists together, stretching his fingers so that he can wrap one hand around both, his other hand sliding away to the side, finger skating over the softness of the sheets – and across the length of the tie Viktor dropped to the bedspread as he undressed.

The silk is cool beneath Yuuri’s searching fingertips.

“I told you – when you touch me, _I can’t think_.” Yuuri’s fingers close about Viktor’s tie, gathering it into his hand. “I can’t control myself, with your hands on me – it’s distracting.” Silk rasps against Viktor’s skin, a slither of sound as Yuuri wraps the tie around his wrists, dark blue in gorgeous contrast to the bedding. “So if I have to tie your hands together to remind you to keep them to yourself, then that’s – t-that’s what I’m going to do.” The knot is only a basic one, simple and sloppy, and honestly if Viktor wanted to get free it would be easy enough for him to slip his hands out of the loop of the tie – but the flush that blooms hot across pale skin, colouring Viktor’s face red all the way up to his ears, says he isn’t going to put up a fight.

“You’re going to keep your hands here,” says Yuuri again, pushing them back into the pillows for emphasis, and Viktor nods drunkenly, apparently shocked into aroused speechlessness. It’s a good look on him, even if a small voice at the back of Yuuri’s head is blabbering in panic. _What are you doing. What are you doing. You really think you can take charge like this?! _But Viktor seems to think so, and is enjoying the hell out of himself if the blown-out pools of his pupils are any indication, so Yuuri lets his hands slide down Viktor’s arms – all that delicious muscle rippling and tensing beneath his trailing fingertips – and rocks back to sit on his heels, breathing hard with Viktor’s thighs splaying accommodatingly wide around his hips.

“What,” says Viktor – _starts_ Viktor, his voice crackling and soft and the sentence dying on a harsh breath. His hands twitch against their binding, fighting to stay still on the pillow. He swallows, tries again, but his eyes do not leave Yuuri’s face even as he drags his tongue over his lips to wet them. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to touch you,” says Yuuri, because it’s been burning in him for so long he can’t think to do anything else. “I’m going to touch you exactly how I want to, and you’re not going to stop me.” And maybe it’s the champagne – or maybe it’s Eros, or maybe it’s love – but Yuuri’s hand is steady even as his heart thunders, his fingers curling under Viktor’s chin and his thumb smoothing along the glorious edge of that male-model jawline. The faint rasp of evening stubble beneath his fingertips is electric, an intimate thrill all of its own. “And if you’re really lucky, when I’m done, I’ll let you touch me too.”

Viktor will shave in the morning before their flight, side by side with Yuuri at their shared sink in the cramped hotel bathroom, their elbows bumping, and when he does he’s going to find the mark that Yuuri bends down to suck into the soft hollow of his throat, Yuuri letting himself drag his tongue over warm skin that tastes salty like sweat and the clean cold ghost of an ice-rink’s chill.

“ _Gngh–!!_ ”

It would be generous to call the noise Viktor makes a groan when it’s really more of a whimper, but no matter what it is it silences the nervous twittering in Yuuri’s head, leaves him nothing but the dizzy high of a performer stepping out onto the stage: everything snapping into bright sharp focus, each sensation magnified and heady with adrenaline. It’s hard to be doubtful when the scrape of his teeth down to Viktor’s collarbone makes him curse in throaty Russian, a garble of sounds that Yuuri can’t even begin to understand and sounding far sexier than they have any right to be, and when Yuuri kisses him there, right above the swell of his breast, he can feel the drumming beat of Viktor’s own heart pounding against his lips.

“You want me,” sighs Yuuri, the words slipping out on their own. “You really, really _want me_.”

“More than anything,” gasps Viktor. “More than another gold medal – more than a thousand championship podiums. More than all the katsudon in the _world_ ,” and Yuuri has to snort at that last one, even as the thready laughter in Viktor’s voice twines with his pleading sincerity. “Yuuri. _Сахарок_. I have never wanted anything in my life as much as I want you.” He means it, and it hurts in the best way – enough that Yuuri can’t keep himself from kissing Viktor again, pressing his mouth to every part of Viktor he can reach. Which is all of him, every beautiful inch of him naked in Yuuri’s lap, and Yuuri lets his hands fall heavy to Viktor’s waist, his fingertips greedy for touch as they stroke across velvety skin and the steely muscle that flexes beneath.

It almost doesn’t feel real, having him here like this – as though Yuuri has wandered into a fantasy belonging to his younger self ( _and not-so-younger self, if he’s honest_ ) and found the dream more vivid than expected.

“I had posters of you in my room,” he blurts, without thinking, because sometimes Yuuri really has a thing for self-sabotage, but apparently Viktor doesn’t mind: his elbows knock clumsily together as he arches up, trembling with the effort of keeping his hands in the place Yuuri left them, and the grunt that edges out between gritted teeth sounds pained and desperate.

“I know,” he gasps, and when blue eyes flutter open they’re bleary and unfocused, clouded with desire. “Your sister told me – I think she wanted to tease me, but I didn’t _care_ – you stopped treating me like an idol _months_ ago, and now you just–” Viktor gulps for air, chest heaving, and one of Yuuri’s hands glides up his ribs without thinking, thumb dragging over the peak of his nipple. “Да, _yes_ , do that again!”

Yuuri does one better, bending down to flick the tip of his tongue against his fingertip, against the peachy-soft point that hardens against the pad of his thumb as he drags it across. Viktor shouts, hoarse and incoherent, and bucks up with enough force that he smacks his forehead against the inside of his elbow, keening as he sinks back down to the bed and trembling as he goes. Yuuri has to brace both hands against Viktor’s ribs to hold Viktor down when he closes his lips and sucks, but it’s no loss – not when he can feel the thundering swell of each breath roaring through Viktor’s chest as he cries out, and something in his voice sounds like it is _tearing_ : all ragged edges and panting gasps for air.

“Пожалуйста,” moans Viktor, the meaning clear even in Russian, and so Yuuri obliges him, scraping his fingernails in blunt, hot lines down the sides of Viktor’s ribs. He pinches tender flesh gently between his teeth, tongue lapping soft and slow, and one of Viktor’s legs spasms, kicking out so that his foot thumps against the back of Yuuri’s thigh in clear desperation. “Yuuri!”

Yuuri can taste salt in the warm sweat that speckles Viktor’s skin, lips parted as he lays open-mouthed kisses in a trail downwards, and when he finally wriggles backwards down the bed Viktor’s knees rise up without the need for his hands to guide them. Which is good, because Yuuri needs to curl his hands around the cut of Viktor’s hips to hold them still when he reaches the flat of Viktor’s stomach, and the bed creaks beneath the force of Viktor digging his heels into the mattress when Yuuri licks down the ridges of that rippling abdomen, muscle jumping against the stroke of his tongue. “Stay still,” says Yuuri, a little breathless, and looking up he has to admire the shine the marks of his mouth have left, each kiss pressed damply into flushed and rosy skin. “I can’t do what I want if you keep moving about like this, you know.”

Viktor, dishevelled and flustered and blushing red all the way up to his ears – those sharp eyes cloudy, wisps of his fringe sticking to his forehead in dewy strands – can only huff an exasperated breath, shuddering as he tries to compose himself. The corded muscle of his arms stands out starkly, each sinuous dip and swell like marble carved by masterful hands, and that lush mouth hangs open in slack abandon.  Sweat drips off his chin. “I’m starting to think I’m out of my depth here.”

Yuuri’s thumbs stroke against the blade of Viktor’s hips. “Is that… bad?”

“ _Fuck_ no,” groans Viktor, tossing his arms over his face. “This is the greatest night of my _life_.” Pleasure flushes through Yuuri, and he has to duck down to press his smile softly into the slope of Viktor’s waist. He’d wondered, before, if he could ever live up to the expectations Viktor has of him – as a skater, and now as something more – but that’s not being fair to Viktor: Viktor has _never_ asked more of him than what Yuuri could give, and believed in him the most when Yuuri doubted himself. They’re not perfect, either of them; they both have rough edges to scratch up against one another even as they try to fit together, but with time and effort ( _and love, oh, and love_) enough to smooth those edges out, they could be something amazing

The thought of it – the thought of _being with Viktor_ , of being a team together against the world for however long ( _please, please, time is the only thing he can ask for_ ) makes Yuuri shiver, and his hands tighten even as happiness blooms through him like champagne bubbles, like the promise of victory: sweet and crisp and heady, enough to make him drunk with only a single sip. “Stay close to me,” Yuuri whispers, the words barely a breath of a plea – something Viktor can’t possibly hear, even as Yuuri sighs his wish into warm skin.

One day he’ll be brave enough to say it out loud.

For now, though, he has all night to try and get across his meaning without words, and it’s easier than he ever thought it could be: easy to stroke his hands over this body that trembles beneath his touch, easy to dip his head low and sigh a warm breath over the wet marks of his mouth – and when Viktor groans, stomach quivering beneath the kiss of Yuuri’s lips, it’s easier still to bend his head low with purpose and glide his tongue through the slick spill glistening there, the taste of sex and salt rolling into his mouth as easy as breathing.

Viktor’s hips jump, a wet drag of heat smacking sudden into Yuuri’s cheek and smearing across his skin. Yuuri blinks, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Heh.” When he looks up, Viktor is murmuring something indistinct into the hollow of his elbows, sounding embarrassed, but Yuuri doesn’t care; he’s more interested in how Viktor stutters to a gasping halt when Yuuri throws an arm over his hips to hold him down, turning into the hard length bumping against his cheek with lips parted – and the slow, _slow_ drag of his mouth downwards must be some kind of torture, if the frantic whistling breaths of the man above him are any sign.

“ _Unhh_ – дорогой – you don’t know what you do to me…”

Yuuri has a pretty good idea, actually, considering how hard Viktor is against his palm when he curls his hand in a gentle grip, stroking upwards until he meets the edge of his own lips and flicking his tongue delicately between the gaps in his fingers. The salty tang is stronger now, a slick drip that rolls over his fingertips and slips down his wrist wetly. Yuuri sighs as one of Viktor’s knees slumps over his shoulder, the firm press of that heavy thigh a comfortable weight, and when he laps at warm, sticky-slick skin in time with the softly squeezing drag of his fingers, Viktor arches beneath him with a desperate shudder.

“Ah – Yuuri, you need to – I’m too c-cl – _close_ –”

 _I don’t want to stop. I want you to finish_. _I want to finish you._ “Mmn?” is what Yuuri says, though – mumbles, really, lips and tongue too busy to speak – and the sharp intake of a choked breath is the only warning he has before Viktor comes undone entirely.

It starts with Viktor’s hips, a stutter of motion that jerks to a halt as his abdomen rolls tight beneath the press of Yuuri’s bracing arm, the arching of his back almost too much to be held down. Yuuri feels the tension race through Viktor’s thighs with snapping urgency, muscle contracting into rigid tautness and Viktor’s knee clamping about Yuuri’s shoulder as he bows off the bed, one foot slipping haphazardly over slippery sheets; the other smacks against Yuuri’s back, toes curling helplessly as they tremble against his skin. Beneath Yuuri’s lips, velvety skin throbs, the sudden spurt of hot bitter salt scalding as it pulses over his fingers, his chin, his tongue: a silky-wet splatter that pearls across Viktor’s stomach as he sinks in trembling inches back onto the sheets, quivering in Yuuri’s hold.

“Hah…! _Ah_ hn – h-hhn.” The harsh cadence of Viktor’s breath as he gulps for air thunders in Yuuri’s ears, an echo to the racing pulse that drums in his head. For a long moment, there’s only that: Viktor’s breathing and Yuuri’s heartbeat, until at last both begin to slow and Viktor seems to gather the strength to speak. “ _Yuuri_ ,” he says, and Viktor’s voice curls around his name, husked and throaty, the gasp of a man caught and tangled in desperate relief. “Please, Yuuri – look at me. I need to see your face.”

Slowly, and with a shyness that Yuuri can’t help but feel  ( _even here, in this moment; even with what he’s just done_ ) he lifts his head; slips his fingers gently free as he eases back, settling onto his heels between Viktor’s knees and very nearly at the edge of the bed. His face feels hot, mouth sticky-swollen and damp, and it’s difficult to drag his gaze up from Viktor’s chest to meet those eyes as he wipes his chin and swallows the salty taste lingering on his tongue, but Yuuri _tries_ – and it’s with a deep and steadying breath he manages on only the third attempt.

“Look at you, _oh_.” says Viktor softly. “Дорогой мой. You are so beautiful, Yuuri.” His eyes are wet, lashes sticky and clumped together, hair dark with sweat and face beyond flushed, and the teeth marks in Viktor’s bottom lip are stark and sore even to look at. Yuuri doesn’t look away though. _Couldn’t_ , even if he had wanted to, and maybe Viktor knows it, as he stretches beneath Yuuri’s eyes with the slow luxuriance of a man performing for an admirer, all supple limbs and breathy sighs, glowing with satisfaction. Viktor’s arms raise above his head, hands still knotted obediently against the pillows, but the smile that curls his lip is too pleased to be wholly innocent, and okay, Viktor _definitely_ knows what he’s doing. “Will you untie me?” he asks, with the heavy-lidded eyes of a seducer, the afterglow of orgasm only magnifying Viktor’s sex appeal rather than slaking it. “Please, Yuuri – untie me so that I might please you too.”

“No.” Yuuri feels giddy. Feels dizzy, like a quadruple flip spun with no warning – a swooping plunge of excitement quivering in his belly. “No, I don’t think I will.”

Viktor blinks, lips parting. Startled – he looks startled. And _delighted_ , that coy smirk swelling into a full blown grin, the kind that apples his cheeks and crinkles his eyes at their corners. “Yuuri, really,” he breathes, and the hair on his arms is standing up again, Yuuri’s skin tingling with anticipation as Viktor shudders atop the covers, feet sliding across the sheet as he shifts for leverage. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as surprising as you,” and if Yuuri blushes at that – how could he _not_ blush at that – well, maybe he doesn’t mind so much as long as Viktor is the one who sees it.

“Come up here and kiss me, at least,” sighs Viktor then, still smiling. His eyes are so, so soft in the lamplight, pupils dilated and lashes fluttering low. “Please. I’ll beg you if I have to,” he adds, and _that_ makes Yuuri squirm, the rolling throb in his gut and the tension in his thighs standing taut at the thought of _Viktor begging him_ obvious enough that those blue eyes twinkle devilishly. “ _Oh_ …? We like the sound of that, do we? Very well.”

Yuuri stutters. “V-Viktor–”

“Please, Yuuri,” says Viktor, and it doesn’t sound like it did before: gentle and soft, a coaxing request easy to ignore. “ _Please_ , Yuuri – I want you to kiss me. I _need_ you to kiss me.” Now that rich voice is throaty and thick, accent husking the edges of each pleading word, and Viktor sighs as he tips his head across the pillow, the long line of his throat a sculpture, the soft fall of his fringe artful and perfect. Sweat-damp strands veil one blue eye but the other, oh – the other is wet and _burning_. “Yuuri,” he murmurs, pink lips parting plump on each liquid vowel, his name silky and rolling on Viktor’s tongue, “Yuuri, _Сахарок_ , please – don’t leave me like _this_ –”

Yuuri shudders. Can’t help it, his breath galloping faster as Viktor Nikiforov – Olympic medallist, five-time Grand Prix world champion and record-holder for more skating stunts than Yuuri can even begin to list – writhes on the bed like Yuuri alone is the answer to all of his desires. It’s a show, an act, absolutely put on, every inch a performance; but it’s also irresistible, weakening his resolve as Viktor sighs once more, needful and gorgeous as he looks up at Yuuri through the silken flutter of his eyelashes. Beneath their thick fringe, the look glowing in his eye is wicked and lovely all at once.

“ _Пожалуйста_. Please, please. _Kiss me_ – mmhh!”

Against such pure Eros, Yuuri is so, so _weak_.

* * *

The delighted moan Viktor gives upon getting his way hums against Yuuri’s mouth, lips greedy as they press and part and pull at Yuuri’s own, and the heady thrill of giving in at last shivers its way down Yuuri’s spine as Viktor’s thighs part eagerly for him, welcoming him close. There’s a slick smear on his belly where they press together, the heat bleeding across his skin in a slipping grind as Yuuri surges closer – and the warm weight of Viktor’s arms coming down around his shoulders, hands still loosely bound behind Yuuri’s head, is a pleasure all of its own.

“You did that on purpose,” groans Yuuri, half-breathless already, and it’s the understatement of the century. “B-Begged me like _that_ – you knew I’d give in–”

“Of course,” purrs Viktor, licking at his mouth hungrily, chasing the salty tang that clings to Yuuri’s lips to melt the taste between them. “I do everything on purpose, Yuuri. Why would I ever do anything I didn’t mean to?” His teeth snag Yuuri’s lip, draw it back into the suckling warmth of his mouth, tongue darting slick across it. “Life’s too short not to take what you want from it – and I hadn’t wanted anything for so long before I met you.” The strong arms around his shoulders squeeze tighter, crushing Yuuri down into Viktor’s embrace, and he goes down easy, slipping to one knee and then collapsing entirely, Viktor _mmm_ ing into the kiss as Yuuri’s weight sinks on top of him.

“Да, that’s it – come down to me, дорогой.”

Yuuri goes, all resistance lost as Viktor kisses him and kisses him and _kisses him_ – so deeply it leaves him feeling drunk – and so he does not expect it at all when the arms about his shoulders tense and the thighs parted around him flex, and quite suddenly Viktor rolls them both over to pin Yuuri to the bed and loom over him, as triumphant as a god.

Yuuri blinks. “Ah.” The grin on Viktor’s face best befits a tiger, a wolf, a hungry man looking down at the lover pinned beneath him with every intention of devouring him whole. It’s a good look on Viktor – almost everything is – and Yuuri can feel his heartbeat skip into frantic, thrilling overtime when Viktor leans in just close enough to bump their noses together, his fringe falling soft across Yuuri’s own forehead. This close, Yuuri can see the soft crinkles at the corners of his eyelids, the thousand striations of blue that colour those stunning irises, the faintest of freckles scattered over glorious cheekbones in the last remnants of the summer just passed. _He’s so beautiful._

“Да,” says Viktor, in apparent agreement to whatever it was Yuuri said last – he can’t remember; he would challenge _anyone_ to remember anything at all looking into those eyes – and swoops in close to drop the chastest of kisses to the corner of Yuuri’s mouth. “I’m going to have my way with you now, if that’s alright,” says Viktor pleasantly. The mildness of his tone sounds rather like he’s offering to run Yuuri a nice hot bath, except for the glint in his eyes.

Yuuri’s gut twists, a throb of heat pulling between his legs. “Okay,” he croaks. And then swallows, throat fluttering against the pounding of his pulse. “Y-You can’t untie your hands, though.”

The look Viktor gives him is probably responsible for global warming. “Is that so? Well, luckily for you, I am a man of many talents. I don’t need my _hands_ , Yuuri,” he murmurs, a throaty promise that raises the fine hair on Yuuri’s neck. “I promise you that.” He stretches then, sliding his hands out from behind Yuuri’s head with more grace than should really be possible, rocking back to perch on Yuuri’s thighs with his wrists still bound – and then when Viktor slides backwards, it’s with a sinuous movement that makes the entire motion fluid, too perfect to bear. Viktor’s breath on Yuuri’s skin is hot, damp and clinging, and the ghost of his lips spills goosebumps as Viktor kisses his throat, his chest, and lower still.

He only braces his hands on Yuuri’s stomach for balance once, the silk of his tie spilling carelessly across the slick of sex smeared into Yuuri’s abdomen, and the drag of perfectly manicured nails over skin rippling with sensitivity startles a gasp from Yuuri before he can bite it back. Viktor seems to like it though, humming happily to himself as he slides to his belly, and nudging one of Yuuri’s legs up with the press of a broad, broad shoulder. Yuuri’s toes curl against his shoulder, helpless and shivering against the warm, solid reality of Viktor between his legs, and it’s getting _so hard_ to keep his eyes open before the onslaught of sensation that threatens to overwhelm him completely.

“I’m going to take you apart,” sighs Viktor, the brush of his hair over Yuuri’s thighs as he settles between them maddening in the best of ways. His eyes are dark, hooded and hungry when they look up, and if Yuuri had ever before felt like something to be eaten, he certainly feels like the main course now. “Mm, you smell _good_ , Сахарок мой.” He’s not talking about the hotel soap, or even the body wash Yuuri favours – Viktor drags his nose down the crease of Yuuri’s hip with unmistakeable meaning, nuzzling into the swell of his thigh, and the hot wet slip of his tongue flicking out forces Yuuri to clutch at the sheets for balance as the room spins above him in heady circuits.

“Ah–hh, _Viktor_ –”

“I bet you taste good too,” and that’s all the warning Yuuri gets, Viktor’s lips sucking and hot where they part against the inside of Yuuri’s thigh, tongue a wet slide as Viktor pulls the blood beating beneath his skin to the surface with a greedy kiss, teeth scraping sweetly against the swell of his thigh and his mouth pulling, _pulling_. It’s going to leave a mark, and not a small one either, and _that_ thought – Viktor’s mark on his skin, Viktor’s claim on Yuuri’s own body, possessive and red and impossible to ignore – clips through Yuuri with enough force to make him arch off the bed. “ _Ohh_ – _!_ ”

The world blurs into the dark beneath closed eyelids, Yuuri panting and dizzy as he sinks back into the softness of the bed. There’s a whisper of silk, barely a tickle of sound at the edge of his hearing, and then Viktor’s hands are gloriously strong as they curl about his thighs with fingers splayed and thumbs pressing into the creases where leg meets hip. Viktor spreads him open, holds him there – leans in close to breathe soft and warm and damp, sighing gently over the tingling skin he bares before him – and Yuuri can feel the tide of his own breath as it bellows from his chest in hungry, hurting gasps, the rush of adrenaline burning through his blood like fire catching in tinder. His head is buzzing with the echo of his heartbeat, a drumming thunder that rings in his ears, and everything crashes into white noise at the first stroking glide of Viktor’s lips over where Yuuri needs it the most.

“Hn–!!”

The clap of his hands over his mouth catches the shout even as it swells, and Yuuri’s eyes slam open in the same moment, leaving him gasping wet against his own palms as Viktor’s hands force his hips back to the bed. There is a flicker of confusion at the touch but it’s almost immediately drowned out by the all-consuming heat of that slick mouth as it slides around him, Yuuri left helpless to resist the ache that tugs him down into the surge of pleasure rolling through his gut, throbbing between the soft lips that part to draw him deeper, _deeper_.

Viktor groans and it feels like lightning, splintering Yuuri open as it spiders through his flesh in electric crackles, lighting up every nerve as it goes, and the whine hooked in his throat escalates in pitch and urgency when Viktor bows his head and swallows him down with merciless skill. It’s like being squeezed in wet silk, wrung tight as each greedy pull threatens to suck the marrow from his bones and leave him _empty_ , and Yuuri can’t bear it anymore just as he never wants it to end. It’s too good, _too good_ , too much almost; his vision swims in a tearful blur as Yuuri arches up towards the ceiling, lamplight spangling the wet space between his eyelashes as he pants and gasps and _shakes_ , and one hand tears itself away from his mouth to sink trembling fingers into the sweat-damp fall of Viktor’s hair where it spills across the junction of his thighs.

“Ahh – V- _Vik_ – _!_ ” Yuuri bites the heel of his thumb in a desperate attempt at silencing himself when the stroke of Viktor’s tongue turns torturous, the pressure excruciatingly perfect, and the surge of blood that rolls from Yuuri’s face down like the tide drawing back before the wave hits is the only sign he is given for how close he is to the end of it all. His thighs are _burning_ , muscle winding taut like wire in a spring – but Yuuri _can’t move_ , can’t thrust as instinct demands, the grip of Viktor’s hands unyielding and bruising wonderfully hard where they brand heat into his skin, his stomach clenching in rolling bursts that pulse in time with the rhythm of Viktor’s mouth.

Close. He’s _so close_ , and this time Yuuri really does shout, tearing free of Viktor’s grip and squeezing his thighs about Viktor’s head in a quaking vice as his fingernails scrape back through the sweaty silk of Viktor’s hair. Viktor moans thickly, his shoulders shaking, and the movement of his throat is agonising and exquisite. Yuuri’s other hand falls to the bed to claw at the sheets, twisting up a straining handful as Yuuri teeters on the rippling edge of something so vast he has no words for it. He gasps and groans, and the aching sound that punches out of his lungs is his last and most desperate attempt at speech. “Uh– _uh_ nn – I, oh – Vikt– _ahh–!!_ ”

The crescendo swells and swells and _breaks_ , and Yuuri is swept away – lost even as the heat bleeds out of him, breathless and shivering while Viktor’s hands hold him together. He blinks and gasps and strains as the last threads of his climax snap one by one, and then there is only the ache of pleasure released, washing him out and leaving him spent as he collapses with a soft and quaking cry. Gently, Viktor strokes his palms down Yuuri’s thighs, the soft touch soothing as they stroke warmth downwards, easing them apart, and Yuuri is still fighting to catch his breath as Viktor pulls back with a rumbling groan to press damp and sticky kisses against his hip.

“Yuuri, _mm_. Shh, дорогой мой – just relax. I am here.” His voice is a husky ruin, crackling soft, and when Yuuri strains upwards from the pillows to squint through bleary eyes at the smiling man laid out before him, it’s to see the red pressure marks across his cheeks where Viktor was pinned between his thighs. “Ah, look at you. So beautiful.” Yuuri doesn’t particularly feel beautiful – he feels overwhelmed and sweaty and exhausted more than anything else, his stomach still tender from the effort of ecstasy, but Viktor believes it of him and that’s enough to make him flush happily, his face burning as he falls back against the bed.

“Viktor,” he mumbles, more to say the name than anything else, and a cheerful – if somewhat hoarse – hum is his only response as Viktor nuzzles into the crease of Yuuri’s hip. He can see one of Viktor’s feet wiggling happily as he kicks it back and forth above himself, legs crossed daintily at the ankle as he lays sprawled between Yuuri’s thighs, and the sight is ridiculous and endearing all at once – much like Viktor himself. “I’m, um.” Yuuri swallows, blinks, battles for composure. “Sorry I trapped you between my– my thighs.” It wasn’t something he’d meant to do, too lost in glorious sensation to even think about anything but getting more of it, but the marks on Viktor’s face and the redness of his ears really do look sore; enough that Yuuri feels guilty. And embarrassed. And more than a little turned on by the memory of having Viktor trapped there, moaning in delight as Yuuri’s thighs squeeze about his head, but mostly guilty.

“I’m not,” purrs Viktor, and nips Yuuri hard enough on the crest of his hipbone that he squeaks, flinching away – and doesn’t get very far at all as Viktor wraps his arms around his hips to hold him in place, sighing as he does. “Yuuri. Do not apologise – I enjoyed myself very, very much.” Viktor looks up then, the blue of his eyes piercing and lovely, his mouth shining wet as he grins. “Almost as much as you did, I would say.” He smacks those soft pink lips, eyelashes fluttering wickedly, and Yuuri suddenly knows _exactly_ what Viktor is going to say in the breath before he says it. “Mm, _Вкусно_. I knew you would taste good.”

This time Yuuri really does blush, a burn in his face that he has to hide behind his shaking hands. “Vikto _orrr_!”

“I am only teasing, Сахарок.” Warm lips brush the slope of Yuuri’s thigh tenderly, and then Viktor heaves himself upwards with a groan, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he rolls off the bed. “A shower for both of us, I should think, and then we should finish our dinner and be off to bed – we must be up early for the flight home.” The slope of his back is smooth and pale and gorgeous, muscle rippling deliciously as Viktor stretches, unselfconsciously nude as he smiles down at Yuuri with heartful lips. “But first, another drink is in order – that champagne is _far_ too good to waste.”

Slowly, Yuuri sits up, and his heartbeat is still dizzily racing as he watches Viktor cross the room and back again, the magnum of champagne swinging loosely from one hand and two glasses held delicately in the other. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that Viktor is so far out of his league he’s almost in orbit, a celestial body that Yuuri has no right to share space with – and moments like this, where Viktor all but jumps back into the bed, flopping into Yuuri’s space with enough careless grace that he doesn’t spill a drop of champagne even as condensation beads and rolls down frosted glass in fat driblets, give Yuuri enough hope to think that one day they could stand together, side by side as more than coach and athlete, but simply two men in love.

“You’re thinking too much again,” chides Viktor gently, juggling the thin stems of the champagne flutes between elegant fingers as he tips the bottle to fill them. He rests the heavy bottle of champagne in his lap when he is done, leaving it to sway against his knee, and the starburst _pop_ of bubbles against the thin rim tingles Yuuri’s fingertips as he accepts the glass he’s offered. “Drink.”

Yuuri lifts his with shaking fingers, champagne shimmering as it slips against the glass and his lips parting to take a sip – and then he pauses, tipping his flute forward to meet Viktor’s own. The delicate chime of glass _tink_ ing against glass echoes softly beneath the sigh of their mingled breathing, and in this moment, Yuuri’s heart is full and aching.

_I love you so much._

“To victory,” he says quietly, as much a wish as it is a promise, and Viktor’s eyes widen in something like delight before melting into a heavy-lidded softness that catches Yuuri’s breath in his chest, suffusing sweetness all the way through his tired body as they both take a long, slow sip.

“За мою любовь,” Viktor murmurs after, and leans across the bed to chase the taste of champagne with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Incidentally, champagne (particularly _Blanc de noir_ ) is considered the correct wine pairing for katsudon.
> 
> За любовь = “To love”; a toast  
> Вкусно = tasty  
> Сахарок / Сахарок мой = sweetness / my sweetness  
> Дорогой / Дорогой мой = darling / my darling  
> Помоги мне = help me  
> Ты жестокая вещь = you cruel thing  
> Я так хочу тебя = I want you so much  
> Ты мне очень нужен = I really need you  
> Да пожалуйста = yes please  
> За мою любовь = to my love


End file.
